


Through His Eyes

by lemoncellbros



Series: Trouble's Works [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC, Gen, Greg Lestrade - Freeform, John Needs A Hug, John Watson - Freeform, Moftiss has ruined me, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, after fall, mrs hudson - Freeform, possible trigger warning, seriously so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 06:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncellbros/pseuds/lemoncellbros
Summary: It’s been a year since the fall. John Watson is still in Baker Street, and he’s had enough of Sherlock following him.Written by Trouble





	Through His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo this is angsty af and I’m pretty sure Macaw would very much like to kill me now. Whoops. This is a little Drabble oneshot ficlet THING, but it is chock full of angst. No need to worry. As for those looking for fluff, you will n o t find it here.

It had been a year. On the dot. John was still in Baker Street, still trying to wash away Sherlock’s presence as he did the dishes or typed up a doctors note—not a blog entry, n e v e r a damn blog entry—and it wasn’t working. But one day, when Mrs Hudson was out to lunch and the streets were eerily quiet, he had been dusting when he found something shoved into a book on the solar system. A brown envelope with three plastic bags inside, full of snowy powder, and a needle. John felt his hands shake as he picked up the envelope and set it on the table. He looked over to Sherlock’s chair and a rush of memories came back, too loud, too bright, too //fast//, and he was drowning, drowning, drowning in them, screaming.  
He looked back at the envelope.  
//Cocaine, he thought. Seemed to calm Sherlock down. Slow down that glorious machine of a mind//. John felt himself lift the needle from the envelope.  
//And//, he thought as he slowly, steadily poured in a sizable amount of the seemingly harmless powder, //he’s here//. And it needs to stop. John rolled up his sleeve.  
With hands steadier than they had been in months, his eyes fixed on the smiley face staring at him, John carefully inserted the needle with a doctor’s precision.  
And the world, just for a moment, went numb, filled with everything and nothing all at once, but then there was //Sherlock//, that bastard, speaking to him, recalling memories in a whisper of his voice. John wanted to scream. He inserted the needle again, waiting for the overwhelming sound of Sherlock Holmes’s voice to finally leave him, stop haunting him. But Sherlock just kept talking. So John kept inserting. Over, and over, and over again.  
When he finally woke up, his hands startlingly full of energy and bright fluorescent lights shining down at him, he was in a hospital.  
Doctors, he knew, were not supposed to be in this position.  
And then he heard someone sigh a little, a tiny, tired sound, and he turned his head to where he saw those orange plastic chairs, lined up neatly like little soldiers. And sitting there in the last one on the right, was a man with hunched shoulders and a firm stare, looking far too much like he was experiencing an old memory, of a boy with dark curls hunched in an alley, surrounded by drugs and far too close to death.


End file.
